Every Good Girl

by Judy Astley

  ‘Why?’ Chloe asked, puzzled. ‘What’s it got to do with them? It’s your time off.’

  Emily frowned. Chloe had picked up on the wrong sentence from the two she’d just been given. How dense. What mattered was the ‘together’, but then why should Chloe be interested in that – she had two parents in the same house. Parents who went out together and stayed in together, taken for granted. ‘Don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe they want to give me shit-loads of money to do something wild. Perhaps I’m secretly a trust fund babe and they’re working out how to tell me about it.’

  Chloe inspected a spot in the mirror. ‘Hard to tell if it’s zits or if the mirror’s just filthy. It’s not near enough to the weekend for sod’s law spots,’ she murmured, then turned back to Emily. ‘What are you going to do next year? I thought I might just work a bit then travel a bit, you know, what most people do I suppose. Unless I fail everything and have to do retakes.’ That was something they all said, in case of exam disaster. It was like crossing your fingers, an essential calling up of good luck.

  Emily sat down on the wooden bench beneath the coat hooks. From the wire shelves beneath, fetid plimsolls and dilapidated trainers that no-one would ever deign to steal tumbled out onto the dusty floor. She kicked a shoe across the room where it clanged dully against a locker door. No-one used the lockers: the keys got lost and that meant a fine of one pound that nobody wanted to waste.

  ‘I’m going to get a nice job in Marks and Spencer and a Renault Clio and get that Simon to ask me to marry him,’ she said.

  ‘Are you mad? Aren’t you a bit ahead of the plot here? You haven’t even got him to ask you out yet,’ Chloe demanded, looking appalled. ‘We’re clever women, power execs in the making. We just don’t concern ourselves with mere till rolls and checkout rotas. And especially not with diamond solitaire engagement rings.’ She looked at Emily closely for signs of laughter. ‘You are joking Em?’ She shook Emily’s impassive shoulder. ‘You are, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, not exactly. But I didn’t say I wanted to get married, just make him ask me. I’ve been reading this book called Man-Date, all about how to catch the man of your dreams. I want to see if doing all the things you’re supposed to do actually works. It’ll be practice for later, for when I really want one.’ She yawned and stretched out full length on the narrow bench. ‘I’m so tired, I don’t want to do anything that means any more mental effort. I want to slog for cash in a department store and completely forget about it at the end of the day and blitz away all weekend every weekend without a single bloody essay to write. And I don’t want to save a rain forest or the sodding panda either. If pandas weren’t such picky eaters and appalling parents they wouldn’t need our help. They deserve extinction.’

  ‘No backpacking in Australia, no smokin’ and surfin’ in Goa?’

  ‘No. Because even that’s competitive. You hear them at parties, bragging on, like “Oh we got stuck without water, three days up a mountain in the outback, and Jamie got bitten by a redback.” And then someone else says “Oh that’s nothing, Molly got purple monkey fever in Zaire and a witch doctor swapped a miracle cure for her Walkman.”’

  The school bell rang and Chloe picked up her bag of books. ‘And you’ll be able to chip in with “There’s been a hell of a run on black satin bras in 36D this week”, won’t you? They’ll be riveted. Come on, miserable cow, it’s French lit., your favourite.’

  Monica was troubled. Graham had been looking shifty for several days. It was something to do with going out and with telling half, or even quarter-truths. That morning when she’d asked Graham about the owl on the Common, he’d said ‘What owl?’ and gone on stolidly eating his Shreddies. His balaclava was on the shelf in the cloakroom, folded neatly and put back in its usual place on top of the US Air Force Tomcats baseball cap that he’d bought at an airshow three summers ago and she’d told him he was far too old to wear. He wouldn’t look at her. He kept his eyes on the cat which sat washing its back leg, with its toes spread like pianists’ fingers. Even when she sat down opposite him at the kitchen table and made a lot of busy, companionable noise with the toast and marmalade, he just went on placidly munching.

  ‘On the Common,’ she’d persisted. ‘The barn owl you went out to see the other night.’

  He’d grinned then, silly and lopsided, as if he knew something smutty. He’d done that when he was five and gathered all his courage to say ‘bum’ to see what she’d do. He still wasn’t looking at her, but was closely attentive to his cereal, as if he’d heard someone was going to drop a fly or a hair into it and he was determined to catch them out.

  ‘That wasn’t an owl,’ he’d said.

  ‘What kind of bird was it then?’ she’d asked.

  He’d looked at her then, beady-eyed and challenging, cocky with his own obtuseness. ‘A big one. Not a turkey. For once,’ he’d said.

  When he’d gone off to work Monica fretted about what he’d meant. She paced the hallway, then went slowly up the stairs and paced the landing. The house was far too big for just the two of them, cluttered with old and looming furniture that was polished without enthusiasm or skill by a succession of bored young cleaners. They were girls in jeans too tight for proper bending who arrived late and left early and retuned the radio to something raucous whenever Monica was out. They never stayed long, she thought as she opened Graham’s bedroom door. Perhaps it was dusting all his model aircraft that did it. The planes hung from the ceiling and covered every surface. The last cleaning girl, assuming from his room that Graham was still a teenager, had talked to Monica about how lucky she must have felt, having a ‘late’ baby. She had thought for an awful confusing moment that she meant a dead one.

  Monica sat on the neatly made bed and picked up Graham’s bedside reading. She wasn’t going to find out what was going on in his head from flicking through Wrecks and Relics, or The Military Aircraft of Europe. He’d got a secret. She’d never get it out of him, not in the normal way of ask-and-tell. No-one could be as stubborn as Graham when it came to keeping silence. She wondered if it was a woman. There hadn’t been many over the years, or at least not that she knew of. A daughter-in-law might have been nice, and goodness knows Monica had encouraged him, back when he’d been twenty or so and she’d decided it was time. Two in particular she’d made a real effort with and turned into very special friends, helping them choose his birthday presents, giving them hints on the food treats he liked, teaching them tapestry, booking theatre seats for them, but nothing had come of it. Really it was probably just as well – they wouldn’t have given him the proper care that only a mother really could. These days it was all careers and cook-chill dinners. She’d bought Nina a pasta-maker but it was still in its box. She’d seen it, stuffed away in her dresser cupboard.

  Monica sighed and left the room, leaving the door open at precisely the angle it had been at when she’d entered. It didn’t do to pry, and it certainly didn’t do to be found out. Later, talking to Nina, she would blame Graham’s secrecy for the fall on the stairs. She was distracted, not concentrating. Nina would tell her it was because the stair carpet was loose and had been for years, and there’d be a hint about the frailty of age, but Monica would dismiss that, because Nina, who didn’t even know enough to keep a husband, couldn’t be right, not ever.

  Monica was going slowly down the stairs now, wondering, not about Graham but about biscuits: Rich Tea or Bourbon creams with her coffee. She felt cold and folded her arms across her stomach, keeping her body heat in. Her last thought before she fell was that she should be holding onto the banister rail, but it felt, somehow, as if she was asserting her strength, youthful strength, sauntering confidently down the stairs scorning a safe handhold. She didn’t, she told them later, actually hit the stairs, it was more that they came up and hit her. She was conscious of swift rushing air, the clogging smell of dusty carpet, a glimpse of scuffed cream paintwork and thick dull thudding that sounded so very far away. When the fast sensations stopped, she wasn�
��t even down as far as the hall floor, but inelegantly upended, three stairs from the bottom with her skirt crumpled up around her hips.

  I look ridiculous, was Monica’s first thought, seeing her legs, one poked through the banister rail, the other bent beside her. Nothing felt broken, but nothing moved comfortably either, and her breathing and heart felt rushed and frighteningly unreliable. I’ll be found looking a fool, she thought, trying to slide further down to level ground, making a move towards dignity before any real agony that was waiting beyond the shock could get a chance to set in. Inching painfully, crawling across the floor, she made her snail’s-pace way towards the telephone, determined to welcome the ambulance driver entirely on her own terms.

  ‘Remember all those Sunday brunches we used to have here?’

  Joe unfolded his napkin and picked up the menu, gazing around at the familiar gleaming black and chrome Caprice décor. He looked up at a black and white photograph of Peter Blake on the wall, grinning as if at an old and loved friend. ‘And they still have those lovely fish cakes. Remember those? I’m going to have them.’

  ‘Of course I remember,’ Nina said, smiling as she knew she was meant to. The meal hadn’t even begun yet, so she opted for basic politeness in the interests of getting Emily’s gap year discussed. She felt cross inside though, fuming that he could so cosily reminisce about their shared past as if those were the happiest days. If they were, why had he messed them up so carelessly? He’d behaved like a child with a Christmas puppy. Why had he so swiftly taken on a new love-of-his-life? And how soon would he have a new collection of things with her that he could do nostalgic reminiscing about?

  ‘So. How’ve you been?’ Joe asked as soon as they’d done their food-ordering, sipping at his mineral water. Was this Catherine’s influence, Nina wondered, had she hinted about middle-aged waistlines? The Polo safely at home for once, she was the one drinking Chablis.

  ‘I’m fine. Just as ever,’ she told him. ‘Lucy’s got a new friend, Sophie from across the road.’

  ‘Oh yes? I don’t remember children across the road.’ He looked puzzled, trying to recall.

  ‘No, well you wouldn’t, they’re new. Moved in a couple of weeks ago.’ Nina fidgeted in her seat. She was wearing tights that itched, which she put down to Lucy being the last one to operate the washing machine. Democratic in-house chore-sharing had its price; words obviously needed to be had about how much powder to use.

  ‘I missed something then,’ Joe was saying, looking mock-glum. Nina grinned. ‘Well don’t worry, I missed the moving-in too. Apparently only Henry got to gawp at their enormous medieval-style iron bed and the painted wooden zebra. Though actually I saw the zebra too, when they had their party.’

  ‘Party? Things are looking up socially in the Crescent, then.’

  ‘Don’t patronize,’ Nina snapped, then said, ‘Let me tell you about Sophie. Lucy’s besotted with her and she’s only known her a week. She wears military combat gear and the only make-up she’s interested in is Camouflage stripes like the army wear in jungles. I take them out on the common with Genghis and they hide in the bushes so they can jump out and ambush dog-walkers.’

  Joe laughed, ‘I can’t imagine Lucy doing that. She’s so dinky and feminine. She’s been into skin care since she was seven.’

  ‘I know. It’s a real clash of cultures. At night she spends hours taking the camo stuff off with gallons of my Clarins cleanser. It’s costing me a fortune.’

  This was the point, Nina thought, where he might just, unforgivably chip in with ‘Costing me a fortune, you mean’. She waited a second, holding her breath, but Joe didn’t comment. Poor Joe, she suddenly thought, I’m almost challenging him to take the part of the villainous ex. She shifted in her seat again, grimacing at the itch on her thighs and rubbing her left leg under the table.

  ‘What’s the matter? You’re fidgeting like a bored toddler,’ he said.

  ‘Tights, they’ve got washing powder itch,’ she hissed at him across the table.

  ‘Go down to the Ladies and take them off then,’ he shrugged.

  ‘It’s not so simple,’ Nina confessed, hesitating while the waiter arranged their food. She admired the pinkness of her lamb chops, thinking that her thighs, scratched, must be about the same shade.

  ‘Why not?’ Joe persisted annoyingly.

  ‘I’ve got winter white legs, my skirt’s too short for showing them and we pitiful manless ladies are a bit lazy on the old leg-waxing, if you must know, OK?’

  Joe laughed at her. Other diners looked around to share the joke. ‘Don’t tell me you never go out with anyone? Beautiful woman like you?’

  ‘Beautiful, forty-one-year-old woman like me, you mean,’ Nina corrected. ‘I’m now a woman of a certain age. Men of a certain age, men like you, are all going out with women who are still young enough to enjoy being referred to as “girls”. Besides, I’m not interested any more. I’ve decided all men are more trouble than they’re worth, just little boys looking for overindulgent mummies.’

  ‘Well that’s telling me,’ Joe said with a grin. ‘I shall make sure I don’t refer to your love life ever again.’

  ‘Good. Because I don’t intend to have one. Now, can we talk about Emily? Do you think it would be a good idea to treat her to one of those round-the-world air tickets, on condition that she saves up spending money herself?’

  Joe hesitated while the waiter collected plates and gave them the pudding menu. ‘What about something more adventurous, like Raleigh International or whatever? Building a school up a Himalaya or something – wouldn’t she like a challenge?’

  ‘I think she’s finding A-levels enough of a challenge. Come to think of it, she finds getting out of bed in the mornings a challenge. I suspect she’d like something more hedonistic.’

  ‘Oh well in that case it’s just a couple of weeks in Ibiza then,’ Joe suggested flippantly. ‘I expect funds could run to that. We went there once, do you remember? After you did that “Smile, how much can it hurt” poster for the cosmetic dentist people.’

  ‘I remember. Thanks for reminding me – it was the last modelling job I did. Now I’m only fit for the “before” shot for wrinkle cream.’

  ‘Don’t run yourself down. I think, if it’s any help, that you’ve never looked more beautiful. I remember . . .’

  Nina smiled at him indulgently and interrupted, ‘You keep doing that, reminiscing, whatever is the matter?’ She leaned towards him, ready to be sympathetic. His face looked slightly more collapsed than she’d seen it before. It occurred to her that she would have to watch him growing older only from a distance. The lines that came, the skin that crinkled, would come as a shock to her during the rare times when they met. The monthly lunches, she felt realistically, probably would dwindle to twice-yearly, as the girls grew into women, as work intervened, or if Catherine provided a whole new family. Soon there would be cancellations, postponements. She felt sad, suddenly, as if she had lost not just her husband but a huge chunk of shared life to come. Perhaps he’d started feeling the same. Vaguely his fingers started stroking the back of her hand on the table. She pulled away gently, wondering if he’d even realized what he was doing.

  ‘Why don’t you come back to the flat for some coffee after this? You haven’t even seen it yet, and I’d like to show you the room the girls have got. They decided on a silver ceiling, which looks surprisingly wonderful,’ Joe suggested as Nina finished the last delicious morsel of her chocolate tart.

  ‘Your flat?’ she said, wide-eyed and incredulous, ‘What about . . .?’

  ‘Catherine’s gone to York to an accountancy seminar.’ He grimaced and confided, ‘Can you think of anything more desperately boring?’

  Nina giggled, mostly at his disloyalty, ‘No I can’t. Unless it’s a Christmas knees-up of stationery salesmen.’

  ‘Or a quantity surveyors’ outing to the Blackpool illuminations . . .’

  In the taxi to Chelsea Nina felt quite drunk. ‘It’s lucky I don’t have
to collect Lucy today, it’s Megan’s turn,’ she told Joe.

  ‘Megan’s the new Sophie’s mum, I take it. What’s she like?’

  ‘Like . . . well, she’s compact. Everything small and in the right place. She’s six months pregnant with twins and even that’s neat and tidy and packed away properly. She makes me feel sprawling and out of control.’

  ‘I liked you like that,’ Joe said, with a sideways grin. The taxi was slowing down by the river.

  ‘Stop it, OK, just stop it,’ Nina said, clambering out as soon as the door could be opened.

  Catherine wasn’t sprawling and out of control, not ever, not from what Nina could gather from her first view of the flat. It overlooked the Thames and was the sort of place magazines chose when they were featuring warehouse conversion homes with acres of pale wood and no visible personal possessions. It was easy to see which of the contents were Joe’s choices and which were Catherine’s. As Joe busied himself with the coffee-making at the kitchen end of the vast open living space, Nina paced around pretending she was admiring the river view while thoroughly checking out the soft furnishings.

  Joe would have chosen the huge cream sofas, they’d have been pre-Catherine, and he’d got blown-up photos of the girls framed on the wall close to the kitchen. The plain black rug with oversized cream fringes would be one of his but Nina couldn’t imagine him choosing the glass shelf-full of strange-shaped polished steel animal sculptures, or the pair of shell-pink art deco lamps. Up the steel stairs was a gallery where Joe had set up his studio, including the ancient leather sofa from home, and beyond that was the room the girls shared, together with their own shower room. The silver ceiling was pretty spectacular, she thought, though she felt strangely moved by the pair of little brass beds covered with blue and white patchwork quilts. She thought of him after they’d gone home on the Sunday nights, perhaps coming in and sitting on a bed, inhaling their girl-scent and feeling empty.